Recovery
by sirscreen
Summary: Sequel to Christine Seeley Keenan. Takes place after Trev shows up injured in Brennan's hospital room. Who did this to him? Why? He must turn to the Jeffersonian Team for help.
1. Ambush

**This happens before Trev stumbles into Brennan's hospital room. So there won't be much **_**Bones **_**characters for the next few chapters.**

** Trev**

First time they came after me, I was in an elevator in Shanghai going to meet my handler to say, and I had this all planned out, _Mission complete, bastard's dead. I'm going home, screw you._ That was my plan, anyway.

The guy who threw some white powder in my face had a different idea. Fortunately, the air in the elevator was dusty and I sneezed at the exact moment he threw the stuff. A minute-and-a-half and a bruised knuckle later, he was dead in the elevator. I honestly didn't mean to kill him, honest. I wouldn't have ended it that quickly on purpose. I would have squeezed some Intel from him, _then _broke the bub's neck.

I found my handler in his hotel room with his throat slashed, blood pooling from it. Aw man, he owed me money. Worse, they would think _I _did this. I may not have the best record when it comes to dealing with my handlers, but the worst that happened was Larry waking up very confused in Paraguay. It didn't help that he was stuffed inside a luggage trunk. I laughed, but he didn't.

So I got the best way I knew: drug dealers. You'd be surprised what those guys can smuggle in and out of any given country. Not only drugs, but people, guns, untaxed booze(moonshine from Louisiana is very popular in Asia), information, passports, biological weapons, all those nice things. So, smuggling a guy just under 200 pounds was not a problem.

But staying in the cramped and cold cargo area of a commercial flight that eventually was hangered in Chicago was not fun. At least they gave me a Gameboy. And, I managed to play non stop due to me packing a lot of batteries. By the time we landed, I beat the Elite Four. Classic Red version of course. All about the original 151 Pokemon.

Chicago, home of the dirtiest, filthiest, most vile scum till you hit DC. And that's just the politicians. My kind of place. Lot's of people to torment to get away from boredom, a gun-runner centric place, just about everything a criminal would need, you can find it in Chicago.

I called the White House, told them where I was. They acted as if they didn't know me. Of course they would say that. They don't call the COVENANT Project the "White House's dirty little secret" for nothing. They'd send a retrieval team. I would sit tight at the rendezvous until then.

The bitch came after while I was listening to Green Day. Low blow.

_Say, hey!  
Hear the sound of the falling rain  
Coming down like an Armageddon flame (Hey!)  
The shame  
The ones who died without a name _

I was air guitaring it when my instincts kicked in. Instincts are your first impression and they can become startling accurate. Those who don't have the right combination of initiative and instinct quickly die in my work.

I launched myself off the easy chair in the apartment that served as the rendezvous point. I hid next to the door. It burst open and the first thing I saw was the Glock come through.

I speared my left hand forward, knocking the gun hand to the side. I stepped inward, and chopped at the joint connecting the jaw and skull.

She dropped a little bit, and I missed. My hand painfully collided with the frame. Bruised hand, but still fight-ready.

She jabbed forward with her left, aiming for the same junction. I leaned back, and backhanded with my left and followed up with a elbow at my right.

She _stepped _to the blows and dodged them. She raised her gun toward me...

I grabbed her wrist and twisted. The gun fell, but she reversed my grip, and stepped outward to me. She grabbed my elbow with her other hand and push pulled.

I screamed as my elbow broke, bending a full 195 degrees. Those may seem like a measly 15 degrees, but they _hurt._

My face tightened in pain and rage. I side stepped and swung at her face, as fast and hard as I could. She tried to drop, just like she did before. She succeeded in stopping me from hitting the stun-point. My fist collided with her eye. She staggered back, I swung a kick and it hit her in the ribs. I could _feel _one break.

I stepped forward and swung again, before she could recover. Not so. She grabbed my arm and neck and pivoted, using her weight to throw me. I landed on my back, the breath knocked out me. I reacted on instinct, rolling back at speed, swinging my knee at her face.

She leaped back,avoiding my knee. I landed on my feet.

The key to surviving a fistfight is not to know when to throw a punch or kick. It's knowing when to _run._ And that is exactly what I did.

I turned and ran toward the window. I barreled through the glass and fell two stories down. I landed on a closed dumpster, my left ankle _cracking _in pain. I stumbled and fell on the edge of the dumpster, breaking a few ribs.

I fell on my ass as I rolled off the dumpster. My whole body screamed in pain. My face had it the ground as well as my ass, and I could feel the bruises coming. I hastily and painfully force myself up and hobbled as quickly as I could into the crowd.

Subway Station! I hurried as fast as I could to the entrance. I painfully climbed down the steps and into the station. I painfully jumped the turnstile, my ribs and ankle screaming at me. I gasped in pain. I hobbled down the walkway and to a random platform. I jumped in the first subway I saw.

I sat down and panted in exhaustion. Who ever she was, she sure as hell wasn't a member of the retrieval team. Thoughts raced through my head, thoughts about who ordered her. Thoughts about who sent her. I couldn't get off this train at the station. She would be waiting for me there, and I was in no condition for round two.

I got up and hobbled to the back of the car. I went as fact as I could to the back of the train. This would not help my ankle or ribs. I braced myself.

I shoved myself through the door, and skidded down the tracks. I broke another rib. I gasped in pain again and slowly pushed myself up. I hobbled to the side of the tunnel. I looked up. A grill separated the street above from the subway below. Underneath it was the mother of all rats nest. Those little hell-things were very territorial. Those little teeth were sharp and they _hurt._

I steeled myself, _again. _I jumped onto the nest and spring boarded from the nest and grabbed the grill. Thankfully none of the little buggers had managed to bite me. Now comes the hard part. I was hanging with my good arm. I did the one thing I could do.

"_Hey!" _I bellowed, "_A little help here!"_

I think my stars aligned that moment. A guy wearing a green KIWANIS polo shirt looked down the grill. Thank you, Christian youth organizations, "Oh God, are you okay?"

"I think my arm is going dead and there is a bunch of angry rats under here. Less talk, more help please," I begged.

"Um okay," he nodded, "Hey guys, come help this guy out!"

Half a dozen KIWANIS guys lifted me and the grill up and deposited me on the curb. One of them asked, "Are you okay, buddy?"

As an answer I grabbed my injured arm's wrist with my uninjured hand and yanked, popping my elbow back in place. I screamed in pain. The KIWANIS guys leaped back in surprise. Cold sweat dotted my brow. I panted from the pain. I grabbed my ankle and yanked it back in place. I screamed louder. One of the KIWANIS guys exclaimed, "Jeez! Are you some sort of robot?"

"If I was I wouldn't be in this situation," I replied through gritted teeth.

"Come on," he helped me up, "We got a place for you to sleep for a few days."

"Confession," I said, "Ya got a Catholic Church around here?"

"Your Catholic?" the teenager asked, "Figures. You're crazy."

"Is there one?"

"Around the corner," he helped me hobble to there. It was a former convenience store, and poor as hell. The confession booth was made out of ply-wood and heavy drapes, but it was manned. KIWANIS Guy set me in the booth and closed the curtain.

"Forgive me Father for I have sinned," I repeated the old adage, "And I am in need of help."

"Aren't we all," I heard an elderly voice say.

"Can I see your face?" I asked.

He pulled back the barrier separating us. Yes he was old, his skin like paper. I asked him, "Oath of Confession, you take that seriously?"

He got a confused look on his face, but nodded, "How seriously?"

"Seriously enough to die for," he whispered. I saw the conviction in his face. He wasn't lying. He was old school. Good.

"I am a black ops assassin, so my list of sins is long and varied," I said, "Four days ago, someone attacked me in Shanghai. I sneak back State-side, I contact my superiors. Someone attacks me and I barely escape. There's a friend in DC that can take of me until I get better."

"My my," he mused. He smiled, "Impressive."

"You believe me?"

"They teach you how to lie in MI6," he replied with a smile, "I have been around."

"Nice," I said. Like him, I could spot a lie in a heart-beat. He wasn't lying, "Can you help me?"

"I know a church-goer who's driving to the Potomac for a camping trip," he said, "I can convince him to make a side-trip."

"Thanks," I said, "If you need confirmation, my friend's name is FBI Agent Seeley Booth."

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	2. Finding Booth

**I forgot to say this in the first chapter: I do not own Bones. That goes for the rest of the story.**

** Trev**

Well, I was right about my face bruising up. By the time the guy, Bob, picked me up in his totally awesome Ford F150, the right side of my face was almost completely purple. My eye was closed up, and it hurt to eat. Coffee was another matter entirely.

"Jesus, man, your pis will be black," hey, he's the one that had gallons of instant in the front seat. No cream, which is how I like my instant, but still coffee. I am still a Marine at heart.

"I fought in Fallujah the second time completely on coffee," I said "Never underestimate the power of coffee."

"By now you must be a freakin wizard," he surmised.

"Maybe," I shrugged "Could be how I survived things that most would get the heebie-jeebies thinkin about."

"I was in the Army myself," he mussed, "Served in The Unit."

"I was in Fallujah both times," I said, "My respect for the Army before then wasn't something to write home about. Imagine what it's like now."

"Ouch," he winced, "Not like the... what are you?"

"Deceased Force Recon," I smiled.

He scoffed, "Not like the Marines never fluffed up."

"When, in Iwo? Inchon? Or maybe in Tripoli or England?"

"Philippines, first time," he argued.

"A: we were out numbered. B: only a _fourth _of the forces in the Philippines were Marines. The rest were native guys."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

* * *

We spent the next few days like that. He slept in motel rooms, I slept in the car. The Bitch, as I knew her, traced me from something. I wasn't going to make it any easier for them. Besides, it's not like I could walk anyway. My ankle had swollen like a balloon and was an ugly purple color. It shot up pain when a fly landed on it.

After two days we made it to DC. It was about tewlve in the afternoon and I knew exactly where Booth would be.

"Take a right," I instructed, "Left here... keep going forward... forward... left... and were here," the Royal Dinner. I unbuckled and got out, "Thanks for the lift."

"No problem, Marine," Bob replied.

I hobbled to the Dinner, my ankle killing me. I pushed open the door with it's usual cow bell.

"Holy shit, Trev, what happened?" a waitress asked.

"Angry girlfriend," I growled, "Mary, where's Booth?"

She shrugged, "Haven't seen him in a few weeks. He's FBI, so maybe he's undercover?"

I cursed. Colorfully. If Booth was undercover, then I was on my own. I could just find a ride to the White House and punch a Secret Service Agent in the mouth. That would be very therapeutic, but I didn't know whether I was burned, framed, or won the damn lottery. I wouldn't risk it.

"I need to make a phone call," I informed her, "Where's Stan?"

"In the back," she replied.

I started limping painfully to the kitchen. When I burst through, former Seaman Stanley Brown, a cook on a carrier I served on for a week was there.

"Hey, Sergeant," he greeted, "You look like shit."

"No duh, Stan," I grunted, "I need your cell phone."

"Why?"

"I need to call Booth."

He shrugged and handed me the device. I dialed the remembered number. Crap, straight to voice mail. I tried his partners. Same thing. _Damn it!_ This is bad, very bad. I was cut off. Booth was the only one I could trust _not _to turn on me. He was too damn loyal for that.

Think, Trev think... the Jeffersonian. The "squint squad". They would know where Booth is. Problem was they didn't know about my existence. I remembered their numbers. Me and Booth had a system in place in case one of us needed help. It included a number of caches through out DC and one in every major city in the continental US. These caches had clothes, canned food, money, medicine, weapons, ID for everyone who might need them, even Brennan and the Squint Squad. These were maintained and supplied by me. Booth in turn maintained his apartment as a safe house in case I needed it. He had contacts throughout law enforcement that really like him but hate my guts. We never had to use this system before.

"Stan, I need to use the basement," I said.

Stan blanched. If I wanted to use the basement, something was up. Ha handed me the key.

I hobbled out the back way and into the door that led to the basement. I used the key to open it. The basement is full of extra chairs, party supplies, and non-perishable food. I ignored all that and painfully pushed away a stack of Coke boxes. A trapdoor was underneath.

I lifted the door and carefully climbed down the ladder. The Royal Dinner use to be part of the Underground Railroad, and escaped slaves would hide down here. Before that, it was used by smugglers to hide their cargo until it could be shipped. Now, me and Booth used it as a cache.

This one was absent of weapons and gear, because those are the most expensive to get. It did have medical supplies, ammo, change of clothes, and ID. But those ID were for Booth and the Squint Squad. All the ones I used had warrants out on them, so I burned them.

I wrapped my ankle, and iced it. It would still be painful to walk on, but I could manage more now. I didn't put my arm in a sling, but I grabbed the side of my shirt, which worked as well. I covered my face a hat, so I wouldn't scare off babies at a hundred yards. It was all I could do.

Money, however, was plentiful. I had close $100,000 in small bills in here. I grabbed about $200, which is all I would need. I also grabbed some of the payphone change we had and put on a black windbreaker. I could blend in with any crowd.

I left the key under the rock Stan had agreed on. Unlike Booth's fake rock, this one could actually fool people.

I managed to make it to a payphone. I dialed a number that Booth gave me.

_"Hello, Angela Montenegro speaking."_

"Hi,I'm a friend of Booth's. Do know where he is at?"

_"May I ask how you know him?"_

"Old Army buddy," I lied, "I called the first two numbers he gave me to contact him. You're the third on the list."

_"Really? I didn't know-"_

"Can you please just tell me where he is?"

_"Touchy. I don't think he is in the mood to talk right now. The woman he loves in a coma" _I heard her voice break a little, _"And he hasn't left her bedside since she came to the hospital three weeks ago."_

"What hospital?"

_"Memorial Ingalls, the new one on intersection of Spring St and Colesville Rd."_

Ironic. A Norconian needed help and it was in the hospital named after a Norconian who died for his country. God must have a sense of humor.

"Thanks," I hung up the phone and hailed a taxi, "Memorial Ingalls Hospital, intersection of Spring and Colesville."

My heart hammered as the cabbie drove me there. I kept seeing threats everywhere. A normal person with a normal job would quickly dismiss them. I wasn't a normal person with a normal job. I lived off of my instincts. I didn't even relax when we reached the hospital.

I limped straight to the front desk, "Temperance Brennan, what room is she in?"

"Are you family?" she asked.

"Cousin," I lied, "What room?"

"Room 212. Down the hall on your left."

I left without thanking her. I was nervous. Lots of ways to kill in a hospital. Scalpels , poisons, those thingamajigs that doctors use to listen to your heart make great garrotes. I know that one from experience.

I burst open the door to Brennan's room. She's awake. Woo-hoo. Yadda yadda.

"Booth," I gasped, my ankle killing me, "Problem."

**Specialist 4 Class George Alan Ingalls died near Duc Pho in South Vietnam. On April 16, 1967, died after jumping on a grenade to save his comrade. He was awarded the Medal of Honor, and has numerous organizations and buildings have dedicated themselves to his memory, including AFJROTC Unit 20006/7, The Memorial George Alan Ingalls AFJROTC, and Ingalls Park, in his hometown of Norco, California.**

** Memorial Ingalls Hospital is fictional.**

** If you want a chapter, I want reviews.**


	3. Trev meets the Suint Squad

**Timeline issues here: Brennan goes into a coma a few days before Parts of the Sum of the Whole (I still want to shoot Hart Hanson for that debacle), so this picks up at about Rocker in the Rinse cycle. Unfortunately, no one was particularly worried about Brennan at her High School Reunion(bastards). AU from here on out.**

"Trev!" Booth quickly got off of Brennan's bed and stopped his friend from collapsing where he stood. Brennan stared at Trev with a mixture of confusion and abstract fear.

Trev's eyes found Brennan's, "Stop looking at me like that," he said. Brennan found his accent odd. A mixture of Midwestern and South California..

"Oh," Booth rubbed his temples. Today was an interesting day, "Bones, Trev. Trev, Bones."

"We met," Brennan said, still staring at Trev.

The assassin looked confused, "No we haven't."

"Coma dream," she said, "You were a black ops assassin."

Trev now looked as apprehensive as he could be with half his face bruised purple, "Sure," now his voice was more Southern California, "That's not spooky at all."

"I would prefer you two not bond," Booth informed.

Trev sat down on Booth's previously occupied chair. Booth sat on the bed next to Brennan. Trev's eyes never stayed still, examining the room for... what? Brennan could not imagine. Booth examined Trev, "What happened?"

"Not here," he looked... weary. Alert, "Know anyone with a medical degree that you trust?"

"Yeah, there are a lot of them outside the door," he pointed, "But, for a paranoid, manipulative psychopath like you, you won't let them near you unless I knew them personally."

"Good call."

"She's a pathologist," Booth said, "We knew each other since we were teenagers. That work?"

"Yep," Trev tried to standup, gasping in pain. Brennan looked at Booth, "Why don't you help him?"

"Trev doesn't like to be helped," Booth informed her.

Trev said, "My therapist said it stems for helping support my brother and sister after my parents were killed," he shrugged, then winced in pain, "Then again, he hasn't been in the field."

"You go to therapy?" Booth sounded amused and disbelieving.

"I got a higher security access than the president," Trev said, "You think they are going to give that to someone mentally unstable."

"Well, it is you," Booth said.

Trev was about to say something, then looked thoughtful, "Good point."

Brennan noted Trev's accent. He slipped into a Southern California accent when amused, annoyed, or thoughtful. He slipped more into a Midwestern accent when riled or upset. Further more, he seemed naturally stiff, permanently at attention. Brennan would guess that he is either military, or deep in paramilitary activities.

Trev noticed Brennan's studying, "Can I help you?"

"Where are you from?" she asked, "You speak in both a Midwestern and California accent."

Trev though about it for a moment, "During WWII, a fancy hotel was converted into a Navy hospital. It was quiet, secluded, peaceful. Wounded Marines would be sent there to recover from wounds in the Pacific Theater," Trev paused, "After the war ended, a few came back to the place, started farming oranges and raising horses. Most of these Marines came from the South or Midwest. It eventually became the small town of Norco, Horsetown USA," Brennan detected a hint of pride in his voice, "People who live in Norco for a while have a tendency to speak differently than those in Corona, the city right next to it. They have a slight Midwestern or Southern undertone."

"So, they all slip into different accents like you do?" she asked.

"No, that's unique to me," he grinned on the good side of his face, "You're smart... for a girl."

"Scientifically-"

"Bones, he's just yanking your chain," Booth assured.

"I don't know what that means," she said.

"It means I like annoying you," Trev said, "Should we get going?"

Booth gave him a stare that said _You are an idiot_, "She just woke up from a coma."

"Good, then I didn't ruin the prospect of sex for you, did I?" Trev struggled to keep a straight face.

Brennan smiled, understanding the joke, "I'm saving that for tonight."

"Bones!" Booth looked uncomfortable, his inner prude taking over.

"Way to go, Booth," Trev smiled and applauded a bit, "Get some!"

"This is why I don't want the two of you bonding."

* * *

Brennan was checked out of the hospital by 3 pm. Booth and Brennan had decided to surprise the Squint Squad by showing up at the Jeffersonian. Trev would stick to the shadows until everyone had calmed down. When they were all alone, Cam would give Trev a check-up and treat the wounds that he hasn't already dealt with.

That was the plan. In actuality, it went like this.

As soon as Brennan wandered through the glass doors to the Medico-Legal Lab, Angela's unique sense to detect a couple screamed. Hodgins found it somewhat amusing. She had been focused on her work, studying the face of the Hittite they were examining, when suddenly her head snapped up, like a gazelle sensing a lion. She even turned her head right and left, seeming to sniff the air for drama.

She spotted Booth and Brennan right away. Her face broke into a grin of pure joy as she ran to the couple, "_Brennan! Sweetie!" _she cried as she plowed into the woman.

"Oof!" Brennan gasped as she was almost tackled by her best friend, "It's good to see you too, Angela."

"When did you wake up? Why didn't you call me? Why are you out of the hospital?" she fired off questions like a machine gun.

"Slow down, Angela!" Brennan commanded, "I woke up a few hours ago. I didn't call because I wanted to surprise you. And they couldn't find anything wrong with me, and I demanded to be checked out of the hospital."

Hodgins noticed something, "Who's that?"

Booth and Brennan turned around to see a man half concealed in a shadow. Booth quipped, "I thought you were one of the best infiltrators in the world?"

"I am," the man replied, "But then again, I have broken ribs, a broken arm, one eye, and a broken ankle."

"I ask again, who are you?" Hodgins challenged, weary of the shadow man.

"Trev," the man walked out of the shadows. If half his face hadn't been covered in bruises to the point where he looked like Two-Face, he might have looked perfectly ordinary. His left arm clutched his side, and he seemed to favor his left leg. He looked weary, scanning the lab for threats, "Friend of Booth's."

Cam had decided at that moment to come out of her office. Her face split into a happy grin as she saw Brennan, but confusion and the curious amazement you get when you look at a train wreck when she spotted Trev, "Who-"

"Friend of Booth's," he said again, this time annoyed.

Cam shrugged, then turned to Brennan, "I assume Angela will fill me in on all the details, but welcome back," she hugged the anthropologist.

"Good to be back," Brennan answered.

"Uh, Cam," Booth said, "I got a favor to ask you."

"I guess it has something to do with Mr Train Wreck over there?"

Trev looked startled, "How'd you learn what they call me in Egypt?"

Booth turned to Trev, "They call you 'Mr Train Wreck' in Egypt?" he asked in a disbelieving tone.

"Translated," Trev shrugged, "I'm known for bombing train cars transporting those things that Hamas and al-Queda love so much."

"Really?" Hodgins looked _really _interested now, "Who did you-"

"You're the conspiracy theorist, right?" Trev asked.

"Yeah," Hodgins confirmed.

"Well, _I _am a black ops assassin with a higher security clearence than the freakin _president_," he bragged, "I got so much dirt on Congressman, Senators, _the government in general,_ it'll give you a wet dream."

Hodgins looked like Christmas had come early.

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	4. It is worth it

**Thank you mendenbar, so far you have been my only consistent reviewer. I get the feeling that I am not as good a writer as I thought:(. **

** Trev**

Cam said, "You do know we never used this X-ray machine on a living person before, right?"

I stared up at her, "You do know that I was launched into China on an ICBM, right?" That HAD BEEN THE BEST RIDE EVER!

Cam blinked, and apparently decided to hear the rest later**, **because she said, "All righty, let's hope we don't sterilize you. Good luck."

I shrugged. I hadn't been laid since I was nineteen, and my PTSD always reared it's ugly head when I was about to. So what did it matter?

I leaned back on the metal table. Oddly, it was more comfortable that the tables in some of the doctors I had seen. Especially my shrinks's. Yes plural. They're like my handlers. I get a new one every month or so because by then I send them running to the hills. The only one that I had a consistent contact with was the one that did my psych evals.

I heard the machine whirl and click and hum. I tried not to think of it shooting poison into my guts. It had been painful enough to sit down flat on the thing because my arm had sort of frozen to being bent and didn't like being straightened out. Plus, the grad student Wendell dropped me while helping me down, causing my broken ribs to explode in pain. I think I might have spooked him with my death threats.

When the machine stopped and the X-ray complete, no one came within twenty feet of me. I called out, "A little help here."

Booth gave me the look he always gives me when he thinks I'm being an idiot, "You just threatened to beat Wendell to death with his own testicles."

"So?"

"So people don't like it when you do that," he explained, "At least when Bones makes social mistakes like that it's cute."

Brennan smiled, "Thanks, Booth."

Angela's head snapped up, "Did I just hear Booth call Brennan 'cute'?"

Cam stared at Booth in amazement as well, "I think we did."

Brennan looked confused, "Yes, Booth and I are now in a romantic relationship. Is that a problem."

Cam jabbed a thumb at the stunned visage of Angela, "Now it is," she said quickly before plugging her ears.

I should have copied her because Angela let out an ear-splitting scream. It anything sharp or could fire a bullet was near me, I would have thrown or shot it at her after I wasn't stunned anymore. I had enough injuries without adding 'Busted Eardrum' to the list.

Angela bear-hugged the now deaf couple, "_Oh, I am so happy for you two!" _She stepped back, "Oh I've been waiting _years _for this to happen! You two make such a good couple! Other than me and Jack!"

"You and Dr Hodgins are back together?" She asked.

Booth cleared his throat, "They got married while you were still in your coma. Technically, you were there, it was in your hospital room."

"Oh," she blinked in surprise, "I am sure it was a lovely ceremony."

"Booth put rice in your hand and made you throw it," she said sadly.

Brennan smiled, "Thank you, Booth. It was a nice gesture."

Booth smiled, "Your welcome Bones."

I whistled, I turned to Cam, who was examining my X-rays, "Is their always this much drama?"

Cam smiled, "Actually, I think this day is light on drama."

"How?"

"Well," she chuckled, "Booth's Evil Twin hasn't come through the door yet."

I smiled too. Cam I could joke with, "True," I examine my X-rays, "My capitulum is hyper extended, as is my ankle along with breaks in ribs left nine and eight."

Cam raised her eyebrow, "Good call. How'd you learn that?"

"You're not the only one with a Medical Degree."

"Then why do you need me?" she asked suspiciously.

"Because my medical specialty is killing people," I told her, "And I wouldn't want me treating me if I were... me?"

She held up a hand as if stopping a car, "I'm not even going to try to follow you there."

"Good call."

She started making notes, "Ibuprofen for the pain and swelling, sling for your arm, and wrap your chest for the ribs," she motioned me to sit up. I did so, wincing in the slight pain, "Off with you shirt," she commanded as she picked up some gauze wrap.

I carefully pulled my shirt off. Cam turned around and gasped, "Oh God."

I can say this: I had a tough career. The ugly black and purple broken rib wasn't the worst of it. My left shoulder was covered in a burn scar. An ugly, ropy knife scar slashed across my right pec. The rest of me was covered in a assortment of bullet and knife scars. I looked like something from a child's nightmare.

"Black ops ain't the safest of jobs," I said, "These are the ones that I _didn't _have surgery fix."

Cam still stared openly at me. Finally she pointed to the most obvious, the burn on my shoulder, "What's this one from?"

"Philippines," I said, "Terrorist weapons cache. Got caught in a firefight as a barrel of napalm caught."

She pointed to one that was a centimeter from my heart. I answered, "St Louis. Mafia Don was smuggling Mossad operatives operating on US soil into and out of the country. State Department didn't like that. He carried a hidden .22. Thing missed my heart by a centimeter."

Cam asked, "I thought Israel was our ally."

"We don't like Mossad here anymore than they like CIA there," I said. She pointed to the one on my right pec, "Infiltrated a fight club. One of them didn't take too kindly to being beaten. Surprised me with a box cutter," Lower abdomen, "9mm. That one, a Leroy Jethro Gibbs gave me. He is an NCIS Agent, and I killed four terrorists in Annapolis Navy Academy. They didn't want the press getting wind of terrorist infiltrating a Service Academy," I smiled. I had gotten even. Concussions cause big headaches. She pointed to one at my side, "Inexperienced assassin. Missed my kidneys by a good inch."

She nodded, still speechless. She began to wrap my torso tightly with the gauze. She was silent the whole time. Booth, Brennan and Angela were still talking animatedly about whatever the hell people talk about relationships.

I asked, "Spill. What is it that freaks you out? The scars."

She shook her head, "I have seen bodies of those thrust into wood chippers, stuffed in wine caskets, manure piles," she shook her head again, "Yet, I didn't think I could see a person's body so damaged and have them still be alive."

I laughed a little, "Yeah well, it's worth it."

"How," she asked, "How can _this _be worth it?"

"You got kids, Dr Saroyan?" I asked.

She nodded, "Sixteen-year-old daughter."

I pulled out the photo I always carried from my pocket. I handed it to her, "I have a seven-year-old little girl named Jenny that doesn't even know I'm alive," I said, "I see people everyday that could and would kill her with out blinking if it means adding another notch to their gun. I kill _them _or I keep them away. For her, for my daughter, it is worth it."

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	5. Office Party

**I am very disappointed in you guys. 45 of you guys read my last chapter yet you didn't review. I feel bummed. :(**

Laughing could be heard in the dark lab. The only light came from the office of Doctor Temperance Brennan. Inside this office, a collection of scientists, a FBI Agent, and a former-black operator were laughing and joking. Booth had brought beer and Brennan the chips. The reason for this party were unclear. Maybe because it is Tuesday?

Angela decided to do a little study experiment of her own. The former covert operative was laughing and joking with everyone else, seeming to enjoy himself. He wasn't what Angela expected of a man from deep within black ops. He was no Bond, shaken not stirred. If anything, he looked more like a soldier returning from Iraq. He drank his beer with calm efficiency, savoring it as a rare treat. His hair was short, but thick and a chocolate brown color. His eyes were a bright, hard green, and they studied _everything. _Nothing was missed from their gaze. Other than that, his face was completely unremarkable. He had a cute nose, she decided, and his eyes would be beautiful if they weren't so... cold and aware.

"Hey Trev," Hodgins asked, "What can you tell me about the Freemasons?"

Angela slapped him gently in the chest, "Jack! Don't interogate him!"

"When am I ever going to get a chance like this again?" he asked with a smile.

Trev shrugged, and sipped his beer with his good hand, "I don't mind. Who's gonna believe a boy-who-cried wolf like Hodgins?" everyone laughed at the jibe, "Freemasons... I think I might have had kill a cell in DC. The... The Onyx Ring, their espionage arm, I think."

No one laughed at that. They expected a jibe and sarcastic remark, not the blunt and brutal truth. That was Brennan's shtick. Trev sighed again, "When it comes to my work, I don't sugar coat."

Brennan could feel the atmosphere in the room had frosted considerably. The Squint Squad and Booth worked tirelessly to find murderers and this one didn't hide the fact that he was a murderer. Trev had purposely alienated himself, to avoid contact and ties to the squints. Brennan would not have that. She may not be good at reading people like Booth, but she could see that despite his job, and his demeanor, he still retained a sense of morality and humanity.

She lifted her beer, "A toast," she proposed, "To new friends, whether or not we appreciate his job, we appreciate his devotion to the protection of others. We do no less," she sipped her drink.

Booth smiled and so did everyone. Bones was changing, showing more humanity, even after a week of Trev living in her office. He no longer looked like a monster because his face was now entirely healed. She told Booth all about her coma dream. Trev was right, it was spooky. But, now Brennan seemed to have a fictional debt to the fictional Operative and transferred it to the real Trev. _Christ, now I sound like Sweets!_

Hodgins however, wasn't done, "So, how did you get into Black Ops?"

Trev shrugged, "I was offered the chance for more combat, no ties to family. I took it."

"Why?"

Trev's eyes flicked to Booth, who also flicked his eyes to Trev. Trev brought up his hand and rubbed the side of his face. Booth scratched himself behind the ear. The group watched this, trying to decipher the sign language the two spoke. Finally, Brennan asked, "Booth, what are you saying?"

Trev said, "It's a sign language unique to Ranger Snipers. Booth taught it to me in my sniper training."

"So... what are you saying?"

Trev shrugged, "If we wanted you to know, we wouldn't be using a language none of you speak, would we?"

Booth slapped Trev upside the head, "Partner. Friend. _Girlfriend. _Be more respectful."

"I should not have told you about that MCR Team that NCIS has, should I?"

That got a laugh out of the rest. Trev grinned, and said, "Um, we were discussing how far back to tell the story."

Sweets ears pricked, "What story?" this sounded psychologically relevant.

Booth glared at Sweets, "Sweets..."

Trev cut him off, "Ya know what? I'll tell them from the beginning. But," he turned to Sweets, "If I so much as _feel _you attempt to psych profile me, I'll break both your arms at _every _joint."

The psychologist paled, sensing he was being absolutely serious. Trev began his story:

"I guess it started when I was fifteen. Middle of the school-year. Sam, my older brother, had classes all day and wouldn't be back till late at night. My little sister, Maggs, would be staying at a friends. I called my house, got answering machine. I needed a ride home. I called and waited for four hours. Finally I just decided to walk home.

"Not a difficult walk. Just a long one. Sun was going down and it was nice and cool out. No breeze, air fresh, perfect weather. When I finally made it home I found the house a wreck. My little brother, Stevie, and my parents were dead, throats slashed. Blood was, _everywhere._

"My Uncle Mark was my godfather, he lived in Orange County. Uncle Bill was Maggs godfather, and he lived in Los Angeles. Sam, he thought he would have to scatter our family. I, I convinced him to not let our godparents to separate us. I worked a part-time job and a job on the black economy throughout high school. Worked my ass off, paying the helping pay rent and college fees for Sam. I joined the Marines for the money.

"Corps changed my life. I was the best. I was spotted by a Colonel from the Psych Corps of the Navy. They put me in a multi-service psych research program known as the PRODIGOUS WARRIOR Project. At the time, I thought it was just an easier way to get better pay to send to my family.

"I was sent to Afghanistan in 2003. We, my squad, was going on a milk run patrol. Go in, talk to elder, get out. Like a simple fire drill. Taliban had other ideas. The previous night, they had placed IEDs throughout the village. They remote detonated them and then proceeded to attack us.

"Our fuckin Jeeps. That was what they wanted. They wanted to turn those things into car bombs, get them close to American convoys. They came at us with a hundred guys. I just saw my squad, my family, blown up in front of me. I.. lost it. I was awarded the Star for 'bravery' that day. I save the lives of the rest of my platoon. I was moved to another squad, another platoon. Given a promotion. Within six weeks, my new CO requested that I be shipped Stateside for psych treatment.

"The boys and girls in the Project didn't want that. I was their guinea pig. They were salivating at the mouth to study me. They blocked all orders to get me psych treatment. If I wanted to, I could have requested to go stateside. But, all I wanted to do was fight.

"I got into Force Recon when I turned twenty. By this time, the shrinks decided to see what it would be like for a deadly, broken man would be like in a leadership positions. So, by the time I made Force Recon, I was already a First Sergeant. It wasn't long, only six months, before I made Sergeant Major.

"By Twenty-one, they offered me a chance into black-ops. I just needed to separate myself from the Corps. I did better. I faked my death, and separated myself from everyone. I was the perfect specimen on psych research for black ops. Too young to have learned all the cynicism and stubbornness of veterans, yet all the experience.

"Ad then Booth came along. It was in 2005, and he gave me back my humanity by a combination of humor, Journey, and faith. So, I owe Booth a lot. And, by extension, you guys."

Everyone was silent, not daring to speak. Finally, Sweets feebly said, "I've heard of that Project. Makes me ashamed to be a psychologist."

Brennan picked up on the statement, "What they did to you was horrible."

Trev scoffed lightly, "I don't need your pity. I don't need your sympathy. What is past, is past. I shut down the Project once I got enough blackmail material. I was one of the lucky ones. Most of the subjects from the Project were either dead or so stricken by PTSD that they can't function in normal society."

Hodgins tried to change the subject, "Sounds like the Project only made recommendations. Who did you work for before you decided to grace us with you company?" Angela again playfully smacked her husband.

Trev smiled, "I never liked history before. But this groups history is kinda interesting. Want to hear it?"

The group leaned forward, eager in anticipation. Trev chuckled, "Okay. It started with Al Capone. He had a small group of elite hitmen that answered only to him. When he was caught, so were his hitmen. But, the President at the time, Coolidge, had a better idea than have them simply go to Sing-Sing. He recruited them to be his personal assassins, invisible and secret. This laid down the foundation of a group that would be used after WWII to counter the Kidon Unit of Israel."

"Kidon Unit?" Cam asked.

Brennan spoke up, "It means 'Bayonet' in Hebrew. I worked a case in which a terrorist was killed by a member of the unit."

Trev sighed, "It is a Mossad assassination team. You see, there is two ways to classify an assassin. You ordinary, run of the liter assassin. But a problem was posed. These guys are often unstable, and you have to kill them fast. How do you kill a Jason Bourne? An assassin trained to kill other assassins. These are called 'Cleaners' because they clean-up the mess left by rogues. Everyone of the original fifteen Kidon members were Cleaner-class. The idea: the best of criminal and government assassins to act as a deterrent to Kidon from operating on US soil, controled by the White House. That way, it is still Constitutional because we are enforcing existing laws."

Brennan asked, "How did they control these assassins?"

Sweets nodded, "Yeah, if rogues are so unstable, how were these killers controlled?"

"I got a hundred million reasons," Trev quipped, "Lots of artwork was taken from France and Germany after WWII. President sold it on the black market, got up to $100 million dollars, which he stored in banks throughout the world with minimal security. The idea was to get these guys thinking that they could do a few jobs, steal some of the money, then run. None of them ever lived long to enjoy it. The only one to make a clean getaway was an operative known only as 'The Cowboy'."

Booth snorted, "''The Cowboy'?"

Trev shrugged, "From what I heard, he favors Colt-Single Action Revolvers. Pretty good with them too."

Angela asked, "So, they give you code-names like that? What are you?"

"The Tracker."

Hodgins asked, "So, there was this African dict-"

"Not me," Trev said, "They don't let us _request _assignments, otherwise Castro and Kim Jong Il wouldn't be breathing at this moment."

Cam asked, "You have a plan to kill Castro?"

"I gotta plan to kill Clinton," he smiled evilly, "If they can make a law reality, be they Jugde, Congressman, Senator, or President, I have a plan to kill them."

Booth snorted, "You also got a plan to kill the Pope, so it aint special."

"'Aint' is not a word, Booth," Brennan scolded.

"I see them everyday, and I think the only thing different about their relationship is that they have sex," Trev said, "Then again, Brennan probably rocks his world so much Booth is just rubbed raw."

Booth turned a deep shade of red and Brennan laughed, "Believe me, it is mutual. Booth is very good at sex, and has a large amount of stamina."

"Bones!" the prude exclaimed, "This is exactly why I don't want you two bonding!"

Everyone burst into laughter.

They continued throughout the night, Hodgins recounting his adventure with Angela's father (When Trev learned that her father was Billy Gibbons, he demanded that he pay back the poker debts he owed him), and Booth told them a funny story of how he shot in the butt in Somalia.

"And then, we had just got out of this entire street of people shooting at us without getting so much a scuff on our boot. Now, Teddy was just a new kid. It was his first engagement with the Rangers. As soon as we were safe, he tapped his gun and said 'Gotta love this-' and the thing _fired! _The bullet ricocheted off this car and _hit me in the ass!" _

Everyone burst into laughter again. Finally, Jack said, "Well, we should get going. It's really late."

Cam agreed, "Yeah, I got a breakfast date with Paul tomorrow."

Brennan turned to Trev, "Will you be all right?"

"I have been for the past week. Go, rock Booth's world. I'll be fine," he waved her off, "But, Booth can I ask a favor?"

Booth put on his coat, "Sure, what is it?"

"Arms dealer here in DC should have received a package. The clothes I was wearing in Shanghai. It has some of the stuff they tried to hit me with. It might be my only lead."

Booth shrugged, "I'll drop you off."

"Thanks man."

**I want reveiws for this! **

** 3REVIEWS=1NEW CHAPTER!**


	6. Test results

**Trev, at Rodriguez Storage Spaces**

"Oso! How ya doin?" I asked.

_"Bien. Como estas?" _The elderly Columbian asked.

"I'm good," I replied, "You got my package?"

_"Sí señor," _He brought out a brown paper package from underneath his desk. He handed it to me.

"Thanks, friend."

_"No problemo."_

I limped north a block then east two. Booth might like me enough to turn a blindeye to _my _criminal activities, but those of my contacts are another story. Shame really. Mickey's wife Sally made _awesome _cookies and her beef stew was mouth-watering good.

Booth sat in his Tahoe, sipping his coffee. That he bought on his own. I really didn't mean to give him my experimental coffee. That stuff was created from genetically modified beans and was essentially liquid crack. I think he hated the fact that I was more peeved at not being the one to try it first than the fact that he nearly had a caffeine-induced heart-attack. On the bright side, he aced his physical fitness eval. Especially the mile run. He set the record.

"Let's get back to the lab. Maybe Hodgins can-"

"Trev," he interrupted. He only does that when he really needs to get something through my skull, "I don't want _any _of the Squint Squad being brought into whatever it is you are doing. If they say that they will do some off the books lab work for you, fine. But it _stays _in the lab."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," I assured, "Squints aren't cut-out for my kind of field work. They become liabilities."

"Fine," he started to drive back to the lab.

* * *

"Hodgins, I got a mysterious powder for you to identify in exchange for classified intel," I proposed.

The scientists head jerked up, "I think I have a man-crush," he confessed to his wife.

My skin went creepers, "That's not creepy at all," I said, "You gonna help me or not?"

"What kind of information do I get?"

"I tell you about the Consular Operations, the espionage arm of the State Department. More specifically, a mission in Morocco I did with them," I offered.

"You had me at 'espionage'," he assured, taking my package and hurrying to his lab.

Booth walked up behind me, "So, any idea how-"

"8 hours," I answered, "PhD in Chemistry."

"So, why did you need Hodgins?" he asked.

"I haven't had to identify substances for a while. Plus, Hodgins could do it better than me," I shrugged, "Resources available, Booth. It's why you never made officer."

"Neither did you," he quipped.

"True," I admitted, "But whose the one with the Doctorates?"

Brennan remarked without looking up from her clipboard, "Me."

"Let it go, Trev," Booth rubbed his brow, "Bones, a little information on Trev: he sees just about anything as either a bet or challenge."

"It's true," I smiled in a funny way, "You should have been there for the coffee drinking contest. That was fun."

"For the Marine who lived off the stuff in Fallujah," he said, "And that brings back memories of Uber-Coffee."

"Are you ever going to let that go?"

"I nearly had a heart-attack!"

"You were never supposed to have it!," I argued, "On the plus side, that coffee was Uber-awesome."

Brennan, still not looking up, said "That use of the prefix 'uber-' is not gramm-"

"Bones, he doesn't care," Booth said gently.

"It's true, I don't," I shrugged, "I say, we chase Booth out by talking about sex."

This time Brennan did look up, humor in her eyes, "I agree. Starting with-"

"Ya know what, you guys are very funny," Booth said annoyed.

Angela chuckled a bit, "I like this game. Can I join in?"

I didn't keep a straight face, "More the merrier."

Brennan smiled herself, "I find that he is very good at cunnilingus activities."

Booth now had a blank face, "Cuni-language?"

I laughed, "It means you suck her-"

"Okay, you made your point! I'm going, I'm going!"

Booth was about to leave when when Brennan tugged his arm and pulled him off to the side, out of earshot from the squints. Booth seemed to forget that my particular brand of PTSD sharpened my senses, including my sense of hearing.

_"We' are just teasing you," _she assured.

_"I know. We still on for lunch?" _he asked.

_"I would not miss it for the earth," _she replied.

_"World, Bones. It's 'I would not miss it for the world."_

_ "Oh. Thanks. Are we still on for tonight?"_

_ "Wouldn't miss it for the earth."_

I saw them give each other a quick peck on the cheek and separate. Lovebirds.

* * *

I was in Brennan's office, studying a book on medical law when Hodgins finished examining the stuff on my clothes. Good. I was beginning to get pretty steamed on the stupidity of Tort Law when Hodgins burst into the office.

"I got your test results back," he said as he handed me a folder, "Antmethamphedrine. It's a-"

"Neuro-suppressant. Rare, used as a hopeful Huntington's med. Slows down nerve reactions to a almost standstill," I finished.

"Ugh, yeah. It's also called anti-meth. Instead of sending the brain into a frenzy it slows it down," he said, "I found something weird, though."

"How weird?"

"This stuff was coated into tiny capsules of different material," he said, "A wide variety of proteins that would have taken a while to break down in the body. Anywhere from a few seconds to a few days."

A light bulb went over my head, "Keep me from overdosing and from them to continuing to dose me," I said, "This would have taken serious medical and chemical knowledge and equipment. Rules out a pissed of terrorist group. They don't have the patience or brains," I got out of the office.

"Angela!" I called. The forensic artist came over to me, "I got the results your hubby got from his tests. Antemethamphedrine. A rare drug. Can you trace it?"

She shrugged, "Sure. Pharmaceutical companies are required to keep a database of the chemical makeup of their products. Give me the exact nature of the compound and I can work my Angela magic."

I handed her the folder. I was suddenly yanked backward by my collar. Brennan was dragging me back to her office, "Ow! What the hell, Brennan?"

"Your injuries will never heal if you continue to move around like you do not have them, Trev," she chastised.

"You sound like my mother did when I got a concussion," I replied, "Except, she said I wasn't allowed to drive even if I didn't have a concussion," that particular episode still showed because I removed the spark plugs from the cars of any I give a concussion (I was 13 at the time). On the other hand, I hold the record for most property damage in a singe hour in the city of Corona. It felt good, even now. Eight years and I still am not a fan of the Circle City.

"No, I am not your mother," she admitted, "But you act so much like a teenager that I figure I should get practice in before hand."

"Hold the phone," I said, "You two are going to have a baby?"

"He was amiable to the idea last year," she admitted, "And that was when we weren't romantically involved. I plan to wait a year to get comfortable enough to tell him."

"Oh please," I scoffed, "You two act like a married couple already. Except you still have sex. I bet you two get engaged within fur months."

"I take that bet. I say six months," she challenged.

"$20" I challenged.

"I accept your bet," we shook. She then pulled out her phone and pressed speed-dial, "Booth? He took the bet... I love you too... goodbye."

"So uncool."

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	7. Smoke Bombs

"Trev?" Brennan called, seeing her office empty except for the flurry of papers he had left behind. As soon as Angela traced the drug back to James and Johnson Pharmaceuticals, Trev had been entirely focused on learning as much as he could about the firm. Those papers were editorials, hacked shipping routes, anything he could find.

Brennan walked over to her vacant and now very flat couch. Trev had left the wrap used for his ankle and the sling for his arm. She tilted her head to get a better look at his research. Trev had gone all out of Google and Bing. All of these were printouts from websites.

A voice asked, "Looking for me?" Brennan yelped and jumped. She spun around to see the relaxed visage of Trev before hitting him on the shoulder.

"How do you do that?" she demanded. She hadn't even had an inkling of his coming.

She heard Booth chuckle behind him, "Trev is like a Schizophrenic ghost with dynamite. When he wants to, he can be all but invisible. Other times..."

"I like big boom," he shrugged. He flexed his newly freed left arm, "Feels good as new. Same with my ankle. All I'm waiting for is the broken ribs."

Brennan sighed, "I am glad to see that your recovery is swift. I shall ask Cam for a secondary opinion though."

Trev shrugged again, "I'll be out of your hair soon. Angela managed to trace it to J&J's but couldn't access their database for a warrant. I don't know who supplied the shipment," he sighed forlornly, "Too many unknowns. I don't like it."

"I do not like holes in my knowledge either," she said, "You will get there."

A knock was heard at the door. Cam poked her head in, "Uh, where's your father?"

"He is sick at home with the flu," she said, "He wasn't able to come in today."

Cam frowned, "Well, he was supposed to teach a class today, and their mothers already left," she said, "Can you teach them?"

Brennan shook their head, "I am not good with small children, and I think my vocabulary would confuse them. Booth?"

He backed away, "Hey, I'm no squint. Hodgins?"

"Stuck in a Hearing all day about his building a explosive in the lab a few to many times," she scratched her chin before turning to Trev, "You have a PhD, right?"

Trev stared at the woman in amazement, "Have you suffered a recent head injury?"

Booth chuckled again, "The basis of Trev's knowledge is how to end lives, Cam."

The pathologist held up her hands in the universal stop signal, "No teaching them how to kill, or maim, or make weapons of mass destruction. Just a fun, easy science experiment. Can you do that?"

Trev thought long and hard. He appeared to get an idea, the deflatedly say, "No, that's a WMD," he sctached his chin, "Maybe... no, that can be used to kill... Or... no, that'll maim people."

Cam was beginning to lose hope and fill with a ridiculous kind of fear. Who could devote their entire brain to killing people? Finally, Trev said, "Got one. I'll need sugar, stump remover, matches, tinfoil, frying pan, and a hotplate."

Cam decided to trust his judgement on that, "Fine, just... stall while I get those things."

**Trev**

I was starting to get the impression that this was a bad idea. For one thing, I had been subjected to interrogations by the coldest bastards in the world. Those guys could break a person's will with one cold, hard stare.

Those guys had nothing on a group of nine-year-olds. I felt as if I was being stripped away from their gaze. I found the CIA's new interrogation weapon.

Finally Cam rolled a cart in with all the stuff I needed. I sighed in relief, grateful that I could get this over with.

"Okay kids, what do you know about pyrotechnics?" I asked. Cam's head snapped up in horror.

A few in the back raised their hands. I picked one, "Fireworks."

I nodded and plastered a grin on my face, "Fireworks, good. Now-"

"Are you going to blow up my lab?" Cam asked.

"No. these things won't be able to burn down a paper building," I assured, "Now kids, what do you know about ninjas?"

I saw Booth's kid, Parker raise his hand, "They were invisible and stealthy. They didn't want to be seen."

Parker's been hanging out with Brennan, "Good. Yes, now, how does a ninja disappear?"

A number of kids raised their hands, "They throw a smoke bomb!"

"Exactly! Today, I'm gonna teach you how to make smoke bombs from common household items. These things are very safe. You can even eat them if you want, but I wouldn't advise it. They taste blah," I know. I've eaten one, "So, safety rules: these things do burn, so always have adult supervision. Were goggles when making them and make sure to cover your arms. Caramel doesn't bubble, but sometimes people get burned when they cook. Secondly, _never light one indoors," _unless you are me.

I got them started on the recipe. One part sugar, two parts stump remover. I needed the glucose in the sugar and potassium nitrate in the stump remover. Mix in frying pan and heat. Sugar caramelizes into the stump remover. Carefully scoop into little piles onto the tinfoil. Place matches in the globs and wait to set. Remove from tinfoil and you have a smoke bomb.

I took the kids outside to see the fruits of my labor( I wouldn't actually let the kids make the smoke bombs. Liability issues.). I took Booth's Zipo lighter and lit the matches on one. I tossed it on the grass and the kids watched in wonder as the concoction started liberally emitting smoke.

"Now kids, remember the ninjas we talked about?" they nodded enthusiastically, "Well, don't tell anyone this, but I am also a ninja."

One of them scoffed, "Yeah right. You're no ninja."

I smiled. One of them took the bait, "All right then. Let me prove you wrong," I lit one of the smoke bombs and dropped it at my feet. The thing began to smoke liberally.

When the smoke cleared, they stared at an the empty gardens. I heard them gasp and exclaim. I laid my hand on the kid that doubted me shoulder. I took pleasure in his jump, "See? You're wrong."

We spent the rest of the day playing with the smoke bombs we made. A few tried to duplicate my disappearing act, but none could. Perhaps unsurprisingly, Parker came the closest to doing so. Well, Seeley Joseph Booth is his father. Runs in the family ever since John Wilkes first used the ability.

By the time mommies and daddies came to pick them up, the kids were bubbling with stories to tell them about their ninja substitute teacher. I smiled as I watched Booth pick Parker up, his face set in the joy of being in his son's company. I saw the same look of joy when Maggs got home from work and was enveloped in Jenny's tight hugs. My daughter and sister were inseparable. Maggs cared for her as if she were her own.

My smile grew wider as I watched Brennan hug Parker, and him hugging in return. Booth told me that Parker had already accepted Brennan as a second mom. Even if they weren't married, they already were a family.

It served as a reminder of what I protected. Booth, Maggs, Jenny, Sam, Cam, Hodgins, Angela, the squint-terns, they would get their families.

Because of my sacrifice, I would make damn sure of it.

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	8. PT and Training

**Thank you for the reviews!**

** Trev**

_Pant...pant...pant..._

_ Come on Trev... one more time..._

I raced at the wall. My legs burned, I was out of breath. I force my tired legs to pump, accelerating me forward. If only Tate could see me now. My former coach would have laughed himself crapless and scolded me for being weak, even if he couldn't do it once.

I launched myself up the wall, running vertically. I shot my arms forward. I grabbed onto the support holding up the catwalk above. I grabbed it with my other hand and pulled myself up, shimming to the catwalk. I pulled myself up to the cat walk. Forcing myself not to stop for a breath, I sprinted fifty yards to the left. I jumped onto the rail with all the skill of a gymnast. I leaped off the rail, experiencing vertigo for a brief moment.

I fell.

I forced my hands forward. They caught onto the metal railing above the Forensic platform. I swung and flipped onto the exam table. I pushed of the table and flipped, grabbing the railing at the edge of the platform. I swung off the thing and landed, tired and exhausted, onto the floor.

It was a miracle of will that I didn't fall to my knees and pant. My, or Booth's actually, shirt was drenched in sweat. I could feel it dripping liberally off my face. I took my already damp towel and wiped the sweat from my eyes. I lifted my arms above my head, and tried to calm my hammering heart.

"Ahem."

Cam was at the entrance to the lab. She was here early to open the place up. I took a deep breath, my heart beating in my ear drums, trying to get oxygen to my aching muscles, "Hi, Cam."

"What was all that gymnastics, tumbling stuff?" she asked.

"PT," I replied, "Got to get back in shape."

"Shouldn't you be, I don't know, running or weightlifting?" she asked.

"I don't have to leave the lab for this," I pointed out, "Think about it. Would you really like me back on the streets so soon?"

She took a breath as if she were about to say something, then a thoughtful look took over her face. It stayed there for a few minutes before she admitted, "Good point," she shrugged, "So why the gymnastics? Why not just pushups and sit ups?"

"You know Trevodur MCMAP?" She nodded. Booth had explained it to them on my first night here, "Beginner style has to do with speed and inflicting a debilitating amount of pain. Intermediate has to do with surprise and manipulation. Advanced has to do with acrobatics and ambush. I'm the only one who has gotten to the advanced stage."

"So, _this _is hand-to-hand combat training?"

"In a nutshell, yes," I answered, "My style of MCMAP is built on moving at high speed for a short amount of time, like a defensive lineman. It was built from the scenario of facing multiple opponents. In fact, more guys attack you, more effective it is."

"I don't understand that logic at all, but if you say so," she said. She made to pick up her roller thingy, but I beat her to it. She jumped at my sudden appearance.

"See? High speed, short time," I gloated. I picked it up for her.

"Uh, thank you," she sounded unsure. She began to walk to her office regardless. She asked, "So, tell me about how you and Booth met. We only heard the short version."

"I was wondering when someone would ask about that."

**Five years ago...**

_I heard them long before I could see them._

_ "Agent Booth, we thank you for agreeing to help us."_

_ "Eh, I'm just here to return a favor to a judge. No thanks necessary."_

_ "Well, I don't have to tell you that this is classified as a Level One Top Secret Assignment."_

_ "You said I wouldn't even have to leave the base."_

_ "And you won't. Just don't talk about what you're doing here."_

_ "And what is that, exactly?"_

_ The door opened to reveal two men. One was an average suit, immaculately cleaned and combed. The other was more relaxed, his hair spiked and dressed in jeans and heavy-duty shirt. This one had a particular stance. Ranger Sniper. The suit introduced us, "Agent Booth, this is your new student. Teach him how to use a Sniper rifle. Codename is Trev."_

_ The suit left us in the dorm. I snapped to attention, still as a statue. Booth wasted no time saying, "At rest," I took that as "parade rest," and still remained still as a statue._

_ Booth seemed to take humor in my ingrained discipline. He smiled and said,"Slouch. That's an order."_

_ I didn't say anything as I slouched a little bit. Two minutes and I already hated his guts.

* * *

_

_ BOOM!_

_ The bullet grazed the side of the silhouette's face. Not a kill shot. I cycled the bolt and fired again. This time it hit on the top right of the forehead. _

_ "Stop," Booth ordered, "Like this," he fired once, right between the eyes of the target. He sighed, "We'll pick it up again tomorrow. Go relax."_

_ I picked myself off the ground and got out of the firing range. I headed straight for the fighting ring. I spent the next four hours fighting over two dozen opponents. _

_ I didn't miss the fact that Booth watched.

* * *

_

_ When we got to the firing range again the next day. When we picked up our rifles Booth asked, "You're a CQB Specialist, aren't you?" I nodded, "I figured out why you have a hard time with snipers," I fixed him with a stare, "You're used to seeing the battlefield from the inside, not the outside. On the inside, you only see one part of mankind's stupidity. On the outside, you see the whole picture."_

_ I grunted and fired my weapon. Another unsatisfactory shot. Booth sighed and brought out a small music player. He said, "It helps."_

_ I heard a piano begin to play..._

Just a small town girl.

Livin in a lonely world

_"Turn that crap off," I ordered._

_ "It's the only one they had," he explained. Evidently he didn't like this music either, "And just let it relax you."_

_ I tried to block the music out. I fired again. Damn. Fine, listen to it relax... relax..._

_ BOOM!_

_ Hit above the right eye. Better. I felt my heart beat sync with the music, my breathing going along with the beat. A calm washed over me. I had the clearness that I only got with fighting._

_ "_Don't stop... believing," _I sang._

_ BOOM!_

_ Right between the eyes.

* * *

_

_ We continued like that for the next few days, each day with me getting better. I shared a dorm with Booth. After training he would play music, his favorite was a band named Foreigner. Little by little I joined in on his fun._

_ "Hey Trev where you from?" he asked one day. I glared at him. He shook it off, "I'm from Pittsburgh. Now, by the laws of fairness, you have to tell me your hometown."_

_ I went back to sewing up my ripped BDUs. Grappling tends to do that. Finally I said, "Small town called Norco in California." _

_ "Ha! You're a Golden Bear!"_

_ "Cheese-head, actually."_

_ His jaw dropped, "You're a Packers fan?"_

_ I smiled my first true smile since al-Jahan, "Damn right."_

_ We went right into a heated discussion about Packers vs Steelers. By the end of my training with Booth, I wasn't completely better, but I was out of the darkness._

_ I owed Booth my sanity.

* * *

_

"So, he helped you get better by discussing football?"

"We're _guys_, it's how we work."

**3REVIEWS=NEW CHAPTER!**


	9. New Gear and Goodbyes

**Trev**

_Okay Trev... breathe deeply._

_ I swallowed and steeled myself for what I was about to do. I gripped my FN P90 tightly. I swallowed once more. _

_ I rushed from my cover and vaulted onto the dumpster. I brought my weapon up to bear, squeezed the trigger..._

"WHAT?" I screamed, "I SO KILLED YOU!"

I could hear Booth laughing from Brennan's office. I gritted my teeth and screamed, "IF THIS WAS REAL YOU WOULD BE DEAD SEVEN TIMES OVER, BOOTH!"

I hated _Call of Duty 4_. It was so stupid. The bastards engineered it for me to lose. It didn't even simulate an actual battlefield right. I fought in the Middle East. I have done some jobs with the SAS. That is _not _how they operated. At least we were playing system link. It was a little tradition we had. We played against each other and Booth always won. At least Brennan was as bad as I was, and Hodgins had been playing a Zach Addy for years, so he was pretty good. So teams were roughly even.

"Easy man," Hodgins said, "It's just a game."

Angela chose that moment to walk in, "Wow, Trev. I thought you were the best there was," it took all my self control not to force feed her one of her husband's bugs. Preferably a poisonous one.

She must have caught the dangerous look in my eye and quickly said, "There's a sweet old couple waiting for you at the entrance."

Sweet old couple? They wouldn't actually show up here...

I quickly got out of the room. Hodgins paused the game and followed. Booth would do the same soon enough.

Standing at the entrance were two old people, a man and woman. I knew exactly who they were.

"Mickey, Sally," I greeted, "What are you guys doing here?" I asked as I embraced the old man.

"That any way to treat an old friend?" Mickey asked, "Especially one that has been as nice to you as I have!"

"You traced my call, didn't you?" I asked Sally. The elderly hacker (I'm pretty sure that's an oxymoron) smiled at me.

He looked at the Squint Squad with a critical eye. I realized I forgot to introduce them, "Oh, this is... Tori," I pointed at Brennan, "Cathy," Cam, "John," Hodgins, "Annie," Angela, "Sam," Booth, "Warren," Wendel, "Lily," Daisy, "Gothy," the weird guy, Fletcher, "Larry," Sweets, "and-"

"We've met," Mickey said, shaking Max Keenan's hand, "Hello Matt."

"Mickey," he greeted.

Brennan looked confused, "My name-"

"Tori, you _never _tell a forger your real name," I said, "Otherwise people like Sam here will be able to track you down."

She digested that, "I can understand that logic."

"Back to the matter at hand," I said, "How do you two know each other?" I pointed to Max and Mickey.

"He was the forger I used to get me identities while I was in hiding," Max said.

"Second matter," I said, "Do I smell your cookies and beef stew?"

She smiled and held up a car key, "They are in your new ride. I thought we might have a picnic?"

I smiled. Firstly, because Sally was an awesome cook. Secondly, because I recognized what car went with that key.

I like cars. They rank right under guns and knives on my Favorite Things list. Those are the second and third on that list. Number one is my daughter.

I had previously called Mickey and asked him to do some shopping for me. I used Booth's cell phone to make the call. Not a smart move considering his wife is one of the best hackers that ever lived and has a Trojan in the NSA.

They led me to a green Ford Mustang 2006 with black racing stripes. It was a beautiful work of art, and looked fresh off the lot. Considering it came from a chop shop, it probably was. Good thing the plates were changed.

I whistled, "This is why I love you, Mickey."

He chuckled, "You haven't seen anything yet."

Booth asked, "Do I want to know where this car came from?"

"No."

"Okay, then."

Mickey popped the trunk, revealing a collection of items, "Sally had spared no expense-"

"Especially since this was all paid for with the money from one of _my_ Swiss accounts," I said.

He chuckled again, "She went to her own gear-runner."

Brennan asked, "Gear-runner?"

Booth explained, "Like gun-runners except they deal in technology. Computers with illegal programs on them, military grade equipment, bugs, that sort of thing."

Mickey drew out a touch-screen smart phone, "A lot like your PDA. It's a burn phone, untraceable. It's got all the apps your old PDA has, it's essentially it's clone. Except it's not bullet proof."

He pulled out a laptop computer, "This thing has all the hacking software that phone has, except with rabies and steroids. And, it's easy enough for me to use."

"Awesome," Mickey may have a hacker wife, but he was about as computer literate as a caveman.

He pulled out more items, "Laser-mike," useful, "night-vision goggles," definitely useful, "And a spare burn PDA," oh thank God. Bin(short for Binary), my old tech support, would give me grief about losing equipment. I was notorious for losing my PDA. The main reason he upgraded the GPS on it was to give me the exact position of it within inches.

"I got some clothes right here," he hefted a duffel bag, "Your usual shirt and jeans stuff. Plus your op outfits," durable, BDU like garments that I don for big-boom style events, "And we got three suits up front. One Italian, made by your favorite fitter," Michaelangelo, a dirty Italian immigrant who'd sell his own mother for money. Luckily, he had a lot of modern, stolen Italian suits for when I want to make an impression. And he knows my measurements, "A kinda nice one from Men's Warehouse. And a crappy one from Sears."

"Now where's my fun stuff?" I asked eagerly.

Mickey chuckled again. He moved all the tech stuff out of the way and opened a false bottom. My mouth dropped and so did every one of the Squint Squad's.

"Oso went all out," I observed as I drew out a shotgun, "Mossberg 930," 12-gauge, semi auto, 8-round mag. I put it back, "Bravo 51, with Leupold Mark 4 MR/T scope and built in suppressor. Ain't this nice, Sam?" I handed Booth the 7.62mm NATO rifle. He hefted it in his hands and nodded. I continued to examine the guns, "Uzi," 9mm Parabellum with 30-round mag and threading for the suppressor, "Steyr AUG Mark 3," a 5.56mm NATO bullpup assault rifle with a 1.5x scope and 30-round mag, "And my honey," the Mark 23 SOCOM .45 ACP pistol with laser sighting and a 12-round mag, "And another favorite too!" a FN Five-seveN. It fired the 5.7x28mm rounds with a 20-round mag. And these bullets, unlike the similar 9mm Parabellum, were _armor piercing._ And a final present, "K-Bar fighting knife. I love you, Mickey."

I embraced the man again. How could I not? He bought me a virtual armory and enough ammo to storm Fort Knox. Even if it was my own money. Sally clapped her hands, "Now, I've been cooking all afternoon. Let us eat, before the stew gets too cold?"

We ended up having a picnic in the parking lot. It was just cool enough to be comfortable and very sunny out. Me and Booth ended up eating most of the hearty Beef Stew Sally made. She brought a hot plate and warmed up the stew she brought in piecemeal. Otherwise it would have taken all day. She brought _gallons _of the stuff. We had somehow managed to eat it all and a ridiculous amount of the cookies she brought.

Brennan sticked to vegetarian sandwiches("Mickey needs to watch his sodium intake" "Blah!" "What was that?" "Um, yum?") and Sally talked computers with Angela. Jack was riveted by all the conspiracy tales Mickey told about his time as a forger for the CIA. I chatted with the interns. Well, I talked to Wendel about sports(not weird) and Fisher about death(I think I creeped him out a little), and gossip with Daisy.(People like her are my favorite. All you have to do is tune out the annoying voice and focus on what she says. Then you get a lot of info. For instance, about the sex scandal in her yoga class.) I also talked psychology with Sweets. Therapy had taught me to distrust therapists, yet many missions had taught me to trust profilers. Plus, I dabbled in psych study here and there.

Cam also joined in. she and Mickey hit it off right away with him telling her stories about his father being good friends with one of the Tuskegee Airman. Particularly all the funny stories that involve planes nearly blowing up, or blowing up and revealing a soon-to-be-embarrassed man and woman. She in turn shared with him strange and exiting cases she worked, both in the Jeffersonian and as a cop.

Booth stood back, watching us interact. I pulled myself out of a argument over who was better, USC or Georgetown(I didn't need for both of my parents to be USC Alumni to know the answer to that one!) with Wendel and leaned on the car next to Booth.

"All right, spill," I said, sipping the cranberry juice Sally brought("Alcohol is the Devils drink").

"I know you Trev," he said, "And I know that what you do will stop more needless death in the future. But, I also know that without being a part of a group like the COVENANT Project, you're a wild card."

"Good call," I said, "I promise: bloodless as possible."

Booth sighed in relief. Despite what I was, he put his trust in me. He said it was his gut. I didn't care. I lived in a world were alliances change at the drop of a hat. It felt good to have a close ally that has your back. I returned the favor. More than a few of his cases were solved with me covertly threatening judges for warrants. And he let Ms Julian take the credit. Not that I cared. Let her have the credit. She is honestly the only person that truly scars me.

_One hour later..._

"Bloodless as possible, Trev," Booth repeated as he shook my hand.

Brennan shook my hand, "I expect you to be at the wedding."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I assured.

Hodgins asked, "If you're going out of the country, bring me back some bugs."

"Even if I have to smuggle them in my stomach."

Angela hugged me, "It's been interesting, to say the least."

"It has, Art-girl."

Cam shook my hand, "I'll get you over to teach the kids some other time. They want to learn more pyrotechnics."

"I'm sure they do."

I shook hands with the Squint-terns. When I got to Max he fixed me with a steel hard gaze, "Nothing of what you do gets traced back here."

I fixed him with my own, "Don't worry. I protect my sources."

I got into my new car. It had been specially modified with stronger suspension and a nitro-injector for a souped-up engine. It carried around 200 pounds of weapons easy as pie.

As I drove away, I felt the same panging sensation in my chest as when I shipped out for Afghanistan for the first time.

I would be home sick.


End file.
